


Sleepless Nights

by SunflowerRose22



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe, Elements of Horror, F/M, I'll update the tags as it goes, If you were to place it on the novel's timeline it would be, Mystery, Pre-Canon, What AU you ask? That's a spoiler, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-15 20:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17536136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerRose22/pseuds/SunflowerRose22
Summary: Something sinister is going down in Kralia and for once its not the Wood. Naturally, when everything seems lost who is called all the way from the Tower to set things right? Sarkan of course. Except this time, Sarkan might find himself falling prey to something he's never encountered before.





	1. Chapter 1

   “So good of you to grace us with your presence, Dragon,” cawed a noble as Sarkan descended the stairs into the parlor of a minor countess whose name he didn’t care to remember. Sarkan permitted a glance towards the direction of the voice, its owner’s face lost among the sea of plumes, brims, and lace. It looked like Gainsborough hats were making a comeback. Presumably the ridiculous head wear was all the rage in Anglia, as most court fashion was now-a-days. In any case, it wasn’t a pleasant development since it was going to be increasingly harder for Sarkan to spot Solya among this gaggle of backstabbing degenerates. He blended in so well. 

   A servant offered Sarkan a glass of red wine at the bottom of the staircase, which he readily accepted. Before Sarkan could so much as take in its aroma, a hand roughly clapped him on the back.

   “Dragon,” bellowed Marek, grinning from ear to ear, “so you’ve finally come down from that tower of yours.”

   Sarkan side eyed Marek without saying anything, noting the flush to Marek’s cheeks, and took a sip of wine. It was still mid afternoon, obvious to anyone by how the sun barely touched the tips of trees in the far end of the courtyard that could be seen from the open palladian windows. Far too early for a soirée or to be drunk at one for that matter. Yet from a glance it looked like most of the guests were teetering on their feet and leaning on each other for support. The wine wasn’t even that good. It tasted flat and bitter and had absolutely no body to speak of. Though Sarkan supposed rumors of murder would make anyone’s wine taste sweeter. Speaking of murders… “Is Solya with you, by chance?” Sarkan asked. 

   Marek shrugged. “At this rate, he’s probably sprawled out on the floor somewhere.” There was something in Marek’s voice that gave Sarkan pause, a sort of despondency under the good cheer. “Never mind him,” Marek said, recovering from the beat of silence rather quickly, “let’s find you a bed to share tonight.”

   Sarkan was too startled by the direct promiscuity to protest as Marek took him by the arm and steered him directly into the crowd. By the shifting of eyes and halfhearted attempts of dukes and ladies to hide their smiles behind laced fans, Sarkan was very much aware he was being sized up. Unfortunately for him, he barely recognized more than a handful of the houses Marek introduced him to, let alone their faces. He liked to think it was due to the sheer number of years he’d been away in his Tower rather than a fault in his memory. 

   The very thought of the Tower sunk Sarkan’s mind to a stupor, which helped him to shake hands and make polite remarks about the weather without spending too much thought on it. The weeks of travel weren’t enough to remove the bitterness from his mouth. He disliked leaving the Wood to its own devices; and now not only was the valley vulnerable to its clutches, it was also in the hands of whatever bumbling replacement they shooed in during his indefinite absence. As to why he was here, exactly, he had yet to determine. Only that he needed to seek Solya out as soon as possible. And that he should keep his windows locked at night. 

   Far into his second drink already, Sarkan was ready to duck behind one of the potted ferns that lined the room. It was clear to him by now that Solya was nowhere to be seen among the guests in the parlor. Where was that damn bird when he was actually wanted? Sarkan found himself scanning the crowd again, barely nodding to the host’s praise about textiles from Olshanka. 

   At the mention of his name, Sarkan turned back to the conversation and barely caught the words, “bored of our company,” from the countess as she conspicuously whispered into Marek’s ear. Marek grinned at Sarkan. 

   “Maybe he’s forgotten what good company looks like,” Marek said, not bothering to whisper, “after shutting himself in for so long with only peasant girls to entertain him.” 

   The tips of Sarkan’s ears began to burn. He swallowed any snide remarks about the sloppy contents of Marek’s bed with the rest of his wine. Neither seemed to notice, both too busy swaying as they laughed. 

   “I suppose if he has a taste for young blood,” the countess trailed off, a sly smile peeking out between her fingertips. “Nieszka,” she called over her shoulder, “be a dear and come entertain our esteemed guest.”

   “I assure you,” Sarkan objected rather quickly, “you don’t need to go out of your way to–”

   “Nonsense,” the countess countered, “I assure  _ you _ you’ll find Lady Nieszka’s company quite agreeable.” Sarkan bit the inside of his lip to suppress his grimace as they were joined by the lady in question. It was immediately obvious that Lady Nieszka was taller than most women Sarkan had met and perhaps even most men, though he doubted even she could see over the piles of feathers and hats. Sarkan himself barely came up to her shoulder, though to be fair he wasn’t very big compared to most Polnya men anyway.  A good natured smile played on Lady Nieszka’s face as she regarded the countess with fond patience.

   “You called?” Lady Nieszka asked. There was something to her accent that was amiss, like she was trying too hard to sound like a Kralia noble, making her consonants harsher than necessary.

   “Nieszka,” the countess said, “have you had the pleasure of meeting our very own king’s wizard?”

   “Why no, ma’am,” the lady replied, turning to look down at Sarkan with a smile and a bow. The countess giggled at the motion and oversight of court etiquette. Sarkan returned it stiffly, regardless. 

   “I believe you’ll find you have much in common,” the countess continued, “and given you’ve only arrived to court a day or two ago I’m sure,” she drawled, eyeing the two of them up like new trinkets, “our lord Dragon has one or two things he could teach you.” 

   Sarkan really grimaced now but the lady laughed lightly. Perhaps she hadn’t caught the implication in the countess’s words.

   “Where have you come from?” Sarkan asked out of desperation to change topics more than out of politeness. 

   “I’ve come from Dvernik, my lord,” Nieszka said simply. “Not too many days ago, actually. Though,” she paused, looking down rather sheepishly, “I suppose I’ve come at the wrong time.”

   There was a small hiccup in the conversation that drew even Marek and the countess quiet. The subtle change in conduct was loud enough to rouse Sarkan out of his minor stupor and buzz of mind. He took great care to study each expression, trying to gauge how Marek’s down turned miffed expression played off of the countess’s parted lips rounded in an “oh”. From his recollection, Marek did not have any personal ties with the deaths. Even if the last two victims were of nobler stock—hence why he was called in, he supposed. Perhaps there was something to the nature of the deaths that got to him so. Rather, there was something to them that was shaking the entire court and driving them to conduct soirées before dusk and early drinking and the like. However, this all seemed to be above Lady Nieszka’s head as she didn’t seem to notice the change in the demeanor of her company. She seemed to be lost in thought as she stared at the polished floor. Then suddenly her eyes lit up with awareness.

   “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m realizing it’s not proper conversation for a party.” Her nervous chuckle seemed to break the tension of the moment. Marek even stirred himself out of his mood long enough to chuckle. 

   “Quite alright,” he said, though a little quieter than his normal booming voice. “Quite alright. No harm done.” 

   Sarkan took a sip of his drink and realized he was still out of wine. 

   “You know,” Lady Nieszka continued, “I could faint with fright at the mere thought of someone coming in through my window.” She laughed again but no one joined in. Though the countess was trying to be discreet, Sarkan saw the flash of her gloved hand as it caught the lady’s wrist. 

   “Oh dear,” the countess said cheerfully, crushing Lady Nieszka’s wrist, “you’ll scare me half to death with talk like that.” 

   The lady returned the countess’s smile. 

   “I didn’t mean anything by it, honest,” the lady said. “Besides, I’m sure no fiend would dare caress us with his gaze as long as his highness is here.”

   Marek watched his wine stir in his glass.

   “Oh yes, of course,” the countess piped up instead, casting Marek a quick smile before turning the conversation on its head to hors d’oeuvres. Marek pardoned himself rather quickly, disappearing into the crowd. 

   Sarkan found he couldn’t escape so easily, what with the countess continuously guiding Lady Nieszka’s attention to him every chance she got. So he found ways of tuning the conversation out by nodding or humming unambiguous statements, allowing him to ponder over what he had just heard. Deciding there was nothing new to learn, aside from Marek’s obvious depression over the string of murders occurring throughout Kralia, Sarkan found his mind rolling over to how he had never heard of a duchy in—funny. He couldn’t recall where Lady Nieszka said she was from. He found himself studying her eyes while he tried to remember. They were a very nice shade of brown. The closer he looked, the more he noticed there were strings of green threaded through her irises. The color caught the light as she turned her head to feign a blush. 

   Strange. The more he examined her irises the more Sarkan got this sense that the brown was a sort of coating of dirt. Like if he took them in his hands and plunged them into the cold Spindle, they would reveal eyes as brilliant as jade. Maybe it was just the drink talking.  

   A snort of a laugh brought Sarkan up short. He straightened his back as he realized he had been staring directly into her eyes. The laugh had luckily, or unluckily, come from Lady Nieszka. She flipped her fan open, using it to hide her face from their companions. Sarkan barely caught what she whispered, would not have had he not been watching her smiling lips. 

   “It’s not nice to stare, Sarkan.”


	2. Chapter 2

   Before Sarkan could voice the utter perplexity he felt, Lady Nieszka closed her fan, tapped it to her mouth once, and bowed her departure. Sarkan looked to the countess, who only smiled and curtsied. 

   “I hope you find the evening most pleasurable,” the countess said, “Will you be staying the night, my lord?” It took Sarkan a moment to realize she was referring to a guest bedroom and not—at least, he hoped she wasn’t offering him a space in her bed. Or the Lady Nieszka’s bed for that matter. He couldn’t recall the lady mentioning where she was staying. He couldn’t recall her mentioning anything about herself, aside from her preference for citrus flavored sweets and that she knew more than she led on. There was something off about her that Sarkan couldn’t begin to riddle out.  

   “I was rather hoping to catch up with an old friend before heading out,” Sarkan said at last. If the countess was disappointed in his plans, she didn’t show it.  

   “May your travels be safe then,” she responded. “I’m sure you know this but all the same, I’d advise you to leave before the sun goes down.” With that she curtsied again and left Sarkan alone. 

 

   Sarkan was having a devil of a time navigating the gabbling clusters of nobles without being stopped every five minutes for feigned pleasantries or thinly veiled favors. As far as he could tell, Marek had disappeared all together and there still was no sign of Solya. Course it was hard to look for him when his attention was being taxed with every step. It got to the point that Sarkan had to slip into one of the servant’s hallways to avoid the countess’s set of bratty sons hounding him to perform a magic trick or maybe just juggle some candle sticks. Honestly Sarkan figured they really didn’t know the difference between a clown and a wizard and were just young enough to know that they didn’t care.

   Sarkan sighed as they raced past his hiding place, hollering jeers back and forth as they went. When he could no longer hear their voices ringing against the walls, Sarkan peeked his head out of the door. To his left the sinking sun could be seen between the leaves of the trees, casting the emptying parlor into long shadows. Servants were already beginning to pull the panes of the windows closed, latching them and rattling them once for good measure. Seemed a bit excessive but not one of the remaining guests turned their head in surprise. 

   There was snickering to his right. Sarkan turned to see the same impertinent children walking back to the parlor, jostling each other and trying the handles of each and every door they crossed paths with. Sarkan closed the door to his hiding place with barely a click. 

   Aside from the soft glow of candles, it was dark in the servant’s hallway. Sarkan followed the candles that lined the path, his hand trailing on the stone wall. In hindsight he probably shouldn’t be wandering in the house of another, minor countess or no, but it was a bit late for that now. He could always pretend he had lost his way to the washroom, if it came to that. 

   The servant’s hall led out to a small room, from which one could access the kitchen, another hallway that presumably lead to the servant quarters, and the servant’s entrance for the villa. The latter was wide open, allowing a crisp breeze to waft into the room along with two muffled but distinct voices arguing in harsh tones. As there were no servants about at the moment, Sarkan crept closer and peered through the doorway. 

   Marek was pacing back and forth, his brows furrowed. Solya sat against the wall, just out of Sarkan’s sight, with his arms wrapped around his knees. 

   “ —you don’t bother to make an appearance,” Marek shouted, coming to a halt right in front of Solya. His hands were balled into fists at his sides. Sarkan couldn’t quite hear exactly what Solya mumbled in response but it made Marek snarl, “Cause you make us look like fools.” He spun on his heel again. “We’re on ice right now, Falcon. Thin ice. If we can’t catch this wretch before he strikes next, we might as well invite Rosya into our front gates.” Marek stopped, bringing his hand up to his chin. “That’s how much our court trusts us right now.” He pinched his fingers together before pointing a shaking finger at Solya. “It has been months since the first death. Months.”

   “Like you gave a horse’s piss when servants were dying,” Solya snapped. “You only started caring three weeks ago, when some rich broad was dumb enough to leave her windows open for her lover to slip in.”

   “Oh I don’t know, I would have thought you wizards could have recognized something  was amiss after the first death rather than after twelve. But I guess you’re all too busy getting drunk under tables to care.”

   “Do you think this is easy for me?” Solya shot back, standing up suddenly only to teeter and have to lean against the wall. “That I enjoy coming into those rooms and seeing just exactly the kind of freaks we’re dealing with? That it’s my fault your soldiers are too scared of their own shadows to actually do their job?”

   “You think a common man can fight against twisted ones? Next you’ll be suggesting we go cut down the Woods with iron axes.”

   “Don’t you have to go home?” Solya slurred, gesturing to the sky. “Or are you bedding widows this time?”

   Marek huffed and stormed off towards the back of the house. Solya swayed for a bit before falling back to the ground with a thud. Sarkan considered the older wizard before stepping out into the yard. Solya rolled his head towards him and scoffed. 

   “Guess they really did call you in,” Solya sneered. “Good luck with that.”

   “You’re drunk,” Sarkan observed. 

   “Let’s see if you don’t start drinkin’ too,” Solya mumbled, tightening his grip around his knees. It felt strange for Sarkan to see Solya without his usual flourishes and sharp one-liners. Sarkan leaned against the exterior wall, quiet for a moment. 

   “Are you going back to the castle?” Sarkan asked at last, sparing a glance to the clouds. They were starting to dye themselves pink. Solya mimicked the glance before groaning and rocking onto his feet. Sarkan moved to support him but Solya waved him off.

   “You came here for answers, right? Then why don’t I show you just what you’re dealing with.” Solya started walking to the front of the house, obviously having no intention of paying his respects to the host before leaving. Sarkan had no choice but to follow behind. 

   “You have an idea who it is?” Sarkan asked. 

   “Whoever said it was one person?” Solya replied. Sarkan wanted to point out that most of the court, including Marek, thought so but he didn’t exactly want to sour Solya’s mood any further. He was already more insufferable than usual, but in a sad way. 

   “So where, exactly, are we going?” Sarkan asked as they rounded the front gate and started trotting down the lane towards the main castle road. They were going in the complete opposite direction of the latest incident where an old retired knight was plucked from his study without a hint or hair how or why. It hadn’t been a complete blood bath like most of the crime scenes, according to Sarkan’s sources, which made it all the more unusual.  

   Solya laughed harshly but said nothing else. 

   They were walking along the shopping district now, with all the shop fronts darkened despite how early in the evening it still was. There wasn’t a soul in sight. There were no horses tied in front of taverns, with music and laughter drifting into the street from the open door. There weren’t any shoppers leaning over display windows with their pointing fingers smudging the glass. There weren’t even any vagrants strolling down the street with a lyre tucked under their arm, looking for a spot to strum a few notes before being shoved off again by the guards who walked the streets at night. It was quiet save for the pounding of Solya and Sarkan’s boots against the gravel. For whatever reason, Solya was running now. Maybe he’d become more conscious of the descending night, as if the empty street had started to sober his senses. Sarkan puffed as he followed behind, the light jog already making his lungs burn. 

   It wasn’t long before Solya cut down an empty alleyway and slowed to a brisk walk. Sarkan suppressed a few coughs into his sleeve as he started to wonder if Solya was purposefully making a mockery of him. That was before he collided into Solya, who had suddenly decided to stop and mumble a quick spell. Sarkan was about to snap at the older wizard about the decency of giving out warnings when he saw a lump of a body sitting in the middle of the alleyway. It was covered in what looked to be like a white bed sheet. Or at least it used to be white—the thin fabric was now stained various shades of black and grey. Now that Sarkan knew it was there, the reek of wood rot and moist dirt overwhelmed his senses and made him gag. 

   “A victim?” Sarkan asked behind his hand. Solya shook his head and took out a pair of riding gloves from his outer coat. Slipping them on, Solya kneeled by the lump and untucked a corner of the sheet, lifting it up.

   From just the single arm that fell onto the dirt, Sarkan could tell it wasn’t human. The flesh of it, if one could call it flesh, was unusually lumpy and coarse in appearance, as if it were made of thick grapevines intertwined to form a misshapen human limb. The nails on its fingers were long like thorns and were crusted with dry blood. The upper forearm of the limb was torn by a series of gashes, like claw marks, and covered in a dark purple ooze that crusted over the open wounds. Sarkan couldn’t exactly codify what about the creature stirred horror in his chest, only that it felt very wrong. He found himself whispering counterspells to any corruption that may leak from the body. 

   It certainly reminded him of the Wood’s corruption. But it wasn’t quite right. It was missing the sheer malicious presence the Wood carried wherever its infection spread. Instead the body just felt hollow, almost starved. His eyes couldn’t stay on it for too long without involuntarily averting themselves. Tension was starting to form in Sarkan’s temples from the smell of rot. He backed away until he was out of the alleyway, standing in the middle of the dead street. Solya soon followed after, crumpling his gloves in one hand and tossing them to the ground. With a quick word, the tan leather of the gloves began to curl and smoke.

   “No one said anything about the Woods,” Sarkan said at last. 

   “It’s not the Woods,” Solya responded, eyes scanning the dark street. “At least not quite.” Before Sarkan could ask another question or at least examine the creature further, Solya grabbed his arm and stepped them out of the street. The air was instantly warmer as Sarkan tumbled to the plush carpeted ground of Solya’s bedroom. Though the drapes and bedding of the Falcon’s room had changed, it was just as messy as the last time Sarkan had been in it over a hundred years ago. Stacks of books sat on top of each other, open to random pages and doing serious damages to their spines. Clothes were spread out across the floor, including some petticoats and bits of armor that Sarkan knew for damn certain didn’t belong to Solya. He half wondered if he’d find one of his old dress shirts kicked somewhere under the bed. 

   Solya didn’t even bother to whisk a cleaning cantrip through, or at least offer Sarkan a drink, as he shoved a stack of scrolls and clothes off of his plush armchair and plopped into it, kicking his feet up to the side. Sarkan scrambled to his feet. 

   “Why did you leave it there?” Sarkan asked, bewildered. 

   “Where would we put it?” Solya asked in return, snapping his fingers to float a half drunk bottle of port and glass to his side. At least the glass was clean. “We don’t know what it is, what it does, or what it’ll do. For all I know it might be gone tomorrow morning, picked up by its buddies no doubt.”

   “Did you actually run any tests?”

   “I examined it, if that’s what you’re asking.” Solya took a long drink from his glass. He then furrowed his brow. “It was more human than I thought it’d be. Like, underneath all that bark and gunk.”

   “And you didn’t, I don’t know, think to tell anyone?” Sarkan snapped. Solya gave him a long, pointed glare before downing the rest of his drink. 

   “You try to make sense of it all, if you’re so smart,” Solya growled, already pouring out another glass. “The basements of blood and symbols, the twisted men staggering through the streets, scratching at the windows night after night, murders five floors off the ground with claw marks lacing the window frame—” 

   “So is it magic? Necromancy?”

   Solya shook his head again. “It doesn’t look like any magic I’ve ever seen and it doesn’t look like the Wood. Trust me,” the older wizard cut in before Sarkan could open his mouth, “I know. Just because you’ve lived next to the Wood for more than a third of your life, doesn’t mean you’re the end all, be all.” 

   Sarkan would like to point out the fallacy in that argument but thought better of it. Instead he said, “You’re helping no one by trying to drink yourself sane. Show me the basements, the crime scenes.”

   Solya mumbled over the rim of his drink.

   “Yes?” Sarkan asked impatiently.

   “I said I can’t.”

   Sarkan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Now is not the time to get cold feet—” he started to lecture. 

   “—I mean it’s not there anymore,” Solya cut in, “Nothing is. Every time we try to investigate something it—it disappears.” Solya groaned and pressed a pair of fingers against his temple. “Look, if you don’t believe me, you can ask Alosha or Ragostok. They’ve been there.”

   “Surely you could’ve at least had the sense to write something down or—”

   Solya shook his head. 

   “Something’s going on, something that I can’t—” Solya’s voice fell away. A faint but distinct sound of scratching against the window frame, like a dog begging to come in, filled the room. It fell away just as quickly as it came. Sarkan turned towards the curtains of silk that covered it, straining to listen over the quiet of the room and of Solya’s bottle clinking against the side table of the chair. Finally Sarkan moved to pull the curtain aside, peering in through his shadow’s reflection. There was nothing there. No trees high enough to knock against the pane or enough of a ledge for birds to roost themselves on the ledge. 

   “Go to bed, Sarkan,” Solya whispered, his voice sounding as worn as his age. He didn’t even try to crack a joke suggesting Sarkan stay the night. Sarkan side eyed the older wizard. Solya sighed. “Look, I can try to draw out whatever I’ve seen or do something like it,” he said, “but I can’t do anything tonight.” 

   Sarkan looked over him a heartbeat longer before bowing and leaving Solya to his drink.


	3. Chapter 3

   “Careful, my lord,” called out a familiar voice from down the hall of the castle. Sarkan turned from the entrance of the Charovnikov to see Lady Nieszka walking towards him, an amused smile on her face. “At the rate you’re going, I expect I might find you fast asleep in a closet next,” she teased before curtsying.  

   Sarkan adjusted the rolls and parchment in his arms and returned her greeting with a bow, letting a brief smile slip on his face as he did. He was rather impressed with her improvements since he last saw her at the soirée. Even her accent was beginning to soften into the proper purrs of a lady. 

   He must not have hid his smile soon enough for Lady Nieszka was snorting a laugh into her hand. 

   “May I help you?” Sarkan asked, fully aware his tone was edging on haughty. That made her laugh even more. Sarkan made a point to avoid her eyes. Doing so, he noted with interest that the lady had no escort. “Is the Countess of..” he trailed off, feeling himself flush as he realized he was still unable to remember the host of the soirée’s surname.

   “The Countess of Lewandowski?” Lady Nieszka provided on cue. Sarkan turned to the window to hide his scowl. What was he doing? He should be showing gratitude but instead he felt begrudged at showing Lady Nieszka any sort of ineptitude.

   “Is she with you today?” Sarkan asked as he scanned the castle’s greening courtyard. The sun was rather bright today. He hadn’t noticed that before, having spent most of the last three days in the library. He’d even been sleeping there, if he let sleep catch him at all. 

   Sarkan realized that Lady Nieszka hadn’t responded to his question. She hadn’t said anything at all, to be precise. Sarkan turned to repeat his question, only to brush his shoulder against her arm. She was standing right next to him, looking curiously out the window. With a rather ungraceful squeak, Sarkan stumbled back. Lady Nieszka turned her inquisitive gaze to him, the light catching the rim of her irises and making them glow.

   One of the guards at the archway snickered, breaking Sarkan out of his unintended trance. His heart was pounding. He dismissed it as his body running through a fight or flight response. He was only flustered because he hadn’t heard her move. There was no other reason for it. 

   Before Sarkan could regain his composure enough to start reprimanding her about common courtesies she asked, “What are you researching?”

   It seemed everything she did was catching him off guard, to the point where he wasn’t even surprised when he found himself saying, “If you’re so curious, I’m studying phonetic respelling of spells and how that may influence the spell’s intended denotation.” He shuffled all his scrolls and parchment into one arm, instinctively shifting into a lecture stance. “It is considerably difficult,” he continued, “to translate spell work between languages without losing significant implication and intention in the process. This is why most practical and useful spells use a łacina based script...” Sarkan trailed off. Lady Nieszka’s eyes appeared to be glazing over.  

   “That’s very interesting,” the lady said, absently nodding, “Latin based scripts, yes.” 

   “Latin?” Sarkan repeated blearily. Yes, he vaguely recalled hearing that word before. From a witch travelling from Anglia. But then, how would—

   “Łacina,” Lady Nieszka corrected herself, “of course.” Her mouth pursed, like she was trying to work through something. Her eyes moved high above his head, probably taking in the grand archway of the Charovnikov. She opened her mouth, humming for a moment to collect her thoughts. Then all at once she recoiled, catching on the hem of her skirts as she stumbled backwards. 

   “It’s always a pleasure seeing you, Dragon,” she said tightly, bowing briefly at the waist before scurrying down the hall back towards the castle. The suddenness of her departure left Sarkan with no option but to watch her go, feeling rather perplexed all the while. 

   It was not too soon after that Sarkan heard Solya call his name from the library. 

   “Is it just me or do you always walk this slow?” Solya asked pleasantly as he approached, an irritated smile replacing the beam he flashed at the guards.

   “Where do you have to be?” Sarkan shot back, shouldering past Solya to walk through the archway into the Hall of Wizards. Without looking he knew Solya was trailing behind. After all, they had been meeting up each day to follow up on each other’s investigations. So far neither had come up with much of anything concrete.

   “Not sitting in a dusty room, twiddling my thumbs while some halfwit lizard stands gawking in the hallway as if he’d never seen it before.”

   Sarkan choose not to answer, not until they rounded through the shelves to his make-shift work desk. 

   “I was talking to someone,” Sarkan finally responded, dumping his supplies onto a chair. The two tables Sarkan had pushed together, much to the dismay of the library’s assistants and Father Ballo, were already covered end to end with various texts of Rosya literature, dictionaries, and tomes on summoning spells. 

   Solya scoffed. “Who do you have to talk to?” he asked.

   “If you must know, I was talking to Lady—” Sarkan stopped. For a moment he was overwhelmed with an intense distrust that urged him not to tell Solya her name. It was completely foreign and Sarkan immediately recognized it as not his own will. Working past the numbing sensation weighing down his tongue, he tried again. “Lady…” The same feeling washed over him, like how perfume lingers in fabric, mostly forgotten unless called to attention.

   A headache began to form as Sarkan tried to pry the feeling from his own thoughts. It didn’t feel like any spell work he knew, which meant he couldn’t directly break it down based on its structure. Sarkan pinched the bridge of his nose, taking relief in the momentary disappearance of the pressure. He ran a couple clarity spells to define his thoughts and followed them up with a fortify spell to block out the intrusion. 

   Though he no longer felt its effects, he sensed the charm linger and brush between his thoughts like a cat. Then it was gone. Or at least it felt like it left. He doubted it was really gone. Sarkan sighed and let his hand drop, wincing as the headache came roaring back. The exhaustion of barely sleeping for three days straight was finally catching up to him. 

   As the spell work had taken most of Sarkan’s concentration, he didn’t realize how quiet Solya had become until he started laughing. 

   “You don’t have to disguise the fact you don’t have any friends, Sarkan,” Solya said, snickering.

   “I would never lie about such superficial trifles,” Sarkan hissed. “I was talking to—” he paused, his breath catching. “To—” 

   Sarkan knew for certain the charm no longer had a hold on him but for the life of him he couldn’t recall who he had been thinking of. He could vaguely remember their presence, the way they towered over him, and the way the light of the sun glinted off of their tresses. He could definitely remember their inquisitive eyes, though he couldn’t seem to recall if they were brown or green. But he couldn’t recollect who these details belonged to, let alone remember their name. Instead he just felt like he’d been robbed of something he didn’t know he had.   

   “Lady?” Solya asked, now peering curiously at him. Sarkan shook his head.

   “I… I don’t remember,” Sarkan mumbled, turning to the desk to hide his heating face. 

   Solya didn’t bother to stifle his chuckle. “I can just hear the ladies of Kralia weep,” he sighed dramatically. 

   Sarkan bit down the temptation to throw a book at him. Instead he took a deep, steady breath and turned on Solya with a glare.  

   “You’re doing an awful lot of chatting,” Sarkan pointed out. “If you don’t have anything new to add than just say so.”

   Solya’s smirk fell away, so quickly that Sarkan’s stomach churned with dreaded anticipation. 

   “What happened?” Sarkan asked quietly. Solya stared down at the elaborate but faded carpet, digging at it with the tip of his boot. 

   “A stable boy and a maid have gone missing,” he finally said, “from our own castle’s staff.”  

***

   The Charovnikov was dead quiet, as Sarkan found libraries often were in the middle of the night. The ball of light that floated above his head illuminated the walls of the bookcases towering around his work space. It sputtered occasionally. Other than his light and the few candles scattered through the room that stood in puddles of their own wax, the entire building was dark. Solya was long gone, off to see if he could dig up anything else about the disappearances; but not before giving Sarkan various blank stares when Sarkan tried explaining what trails he was following. It wasn’t the most encouraging feedback. Most of the library’s assistants had left before the sun fully descended, save one or two that crept around the winding bookcases, re-shelving books. 

   Sarkan found he was having a hard time focusing on the creased parchment sitting on top of all the open books he had compiled. He’d been staring at the foreign markings Solya had drawn onto it for hours, willing them to make sense. While Sarkan very much doubted the practicality of Solya’s research methods, he trusted the older wizard’s sight enough to catch even the most mundane of details. Even if all Solya could give him was a handful of peculiar characters he found painted on several stone floors of various cellars across Kralia, without being able to give any indication of whether these symbols were meant to stand alone as words or could be strung up in a collective phrase.

   While there were one or two letters that looked very similar to phonetic spellings of Polnya spells, most of the symbols reminded Sarkan of Rosya’s Cyrillic alphabet— they had the same sort of hard angles that rarely appeared in the soft curves and swoops of Polnya’s łacina based script. Yet out of all the phrases and words and letters he scourged through, he could only find two matches within phonetic denotations of Rosya spells. Even with that information, he was still at a loss: there was no guarantee the original caster intended the symbols to be interpreted the way they were written. Sarkan dropped the paper onto the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

   The headache had gotten worse. The fortification spells he was running in the background weren’t helping either. They were functionally draining him of what little energy he had to spare, enough that it was hard even to manage his reading light. But as Sarkan didn’t know the full effect of the charm still haunting him, he reasoned he couldn’t just drop them without putting himself at serious risk of manipulation. Sarkan had tried to take a nap earlier to take off the edge of the pain but he found he just couldn’t doze off. Instead he had stared up at the painted ceiling in vexation. The helplessness of this putrid situation was really starting to get to him. 

   For Kralia’s sake Sarkan hoped another incident would happen, and soon, so he could properly tear this mystery to pieces. Then he’d have an actual chance of figuring out who did this, put an end to the twisted men, and allow everyone to go back to their mundane stupors and light social drinking. All the while he could return to wrestling with a real threat.

   Sarkan snapped his head up when he heard a crash resound through the building, followed by distant mumbling. One of the library assistants, no doubt. Sarkan turned back to his work, pushing aside the piece of parchment to study the binding and invocation structure of a particularly complicated summoning circle for chimeras. While Solya fervently claimed he would have seen the charred outline of a summoning circle if one had been used, Sarkan was dead set in his belief that they were summoning something, who ever they were—

   Another crash rang through the building, sounding closer than the first and loud enough to make Sarkan’s head throb. He held his breath, listening. 

   It was silent for a good couple of minutes or so. Sarkan flipped through several pages of the tome, settling on examining a smaller summoning circle made entirely of symbols and a diagonal line that cut straight through it. Honestly, he didn’t know what he was looking for. Maybe a circle that deviated from the norm that required a language of its own creation to activate. Maybe if he actually grasped the purpose of incorporating different languages in spell work, besides shaping intention, he could get somewhere. Maybe he was too fixated on the foreign script. Maybe he needed to examine an actual twisted man to figure out how they were being summoned, and why. It really was a shame, Solya’s prediction about the body coming true. When Sarkan walked out of the bustling crowd down the alleyway the following day, he had found nothing but a stained sheet covering rotted sludge—

   A third crash pierced the silence, rattling the walls. The tome shut with a thud as Sarkan stalked over towards the direction of the noise, the ball of light floating obediently behind him. He swore, when he got his hands on that assistant, they were going to wish they’d never— Sarkan slowed as he rounded the corner of a bookcase. He was in the lounge area of the library, with plush chairs and couches spread out across the space in various oblong shapes. At the far end of the lounge, between two marbles statues of gods, was a fireplace. The wall to his right was lined with windows. To his left the bookcases began once again, rising from the floor. All the candles hanging from the walls had gone out, leaving Sarkan’s orb the only source of light.

   There was no one in sight. Yet, Sarkan was sure the noises were coming from here. Irritation flared through his system. 

   “There’s no use hiding,” he called to the room. His voice filled the space, echoing slightly off the walls. As Sarkan walked the length of the room, his light cast twisted shadows and shapes across the furniture. The thick velvet drapes of the windows were still tied up, allowing the glass to reflect Sarkan’s image as he passed. Upon reaching the fireplace, Sarkan kneeled down to pretend to inspect the ash covered coals. All the while he strained his ears, listening for someone to take a chance on his “momentary distraction” to try to creep out.

   Nothing. No creaks of floorboards or shifting of furniture. Sarkan stood up and cast another glance around the room. He started walking back towards the center. Something flashed out of the corner of his eyes. Sarkan stopped and turned towards the window. 

   The soft rasp of claws against the wooden frame whispered into the quiet. Sarkan’s breath quickened as he stared at his own reflection. He approached the glass, stepping onto the cushions to stand on top of the couch flush against the wall. The pane was cool against his forehead as he leaned over to peer into his own shadow. 

   He expected to see nothing. Maybe a tree had fallen and the branches were knocking against the window. Or maybe the library was just settling. 

   He didn’t expect to see two sunken eyes gaping back at him. 

   Sarkan toppled off of the couch as the creature lunged at the window, causing the pane to shake in its frame. The flickering light above Sarkan highlighted the veiny roots that bulged from its humanoid face. Its long thorn-like claws glinted in the light as they clicked against the window. The twisted man’s lower jaw fell loose, practically unhinged, as it swung from its skull by just a few strands of vines. Gargled screams came muffled through the glass, its eyes locked on Sarkan. It smacked the window pane once, twice, hard enough to crack the glass. Sarkan scrambled away from the couch and onto his feet, categorizing everything of use in the room. If the window broke, he could turn the shards against it and maybe slow it down enough to escape.

   Sarkan thought of the library assistants still in the building, and beyond that the guards dozing at their stations. The creature gargled again, smacking its hands against the pane. The window glass splintered further. 

   He needed to bind it. Then if he bound the twisted man, he could—

   He could study it. He could take the risk Solya wouldn’t and be one step closer—

   The window shattered, littering the carpet with shards. The creature ripped at the pieces that didn’t fall, the fractured glass snapping and shredding the twisted man’s hands. When it made a hole large enough, it crawled up and over the jagged glass, trailing behind a purple ooze from gaping wounds. A thick smell of rot filled the room. The creature chattered as it shakily pushed itself up onto two legs and staggered towards Sarkan, fluid squirting and dripping onto the carpet from its efforts. 

   With a couple words, Sarkan lifted the scattered splinters of glass from the floor. The effort of the spell and the concentration made his head throb enough to see phantoms of colors. With a flick of his wrist he buried them into the back of the creature. The twisted man stumbled forward from the impact, vines snapping and falling loose at its side. The bits and pieces that fell to the floor condensed into sludge. Its entire frame teetered dangerously forward with its arms swinging wildly to keep balance. Still, Sarkan’s chest clenched as he realized it was still shuffling towards him.

   Sarkan mouthed a spell to send the armchair at his side flying at the creature’s legs. Before he could finish the first segment, pain erupted through his head and he choked on the spell with a gasp. His magic collapsed around him, making the chair shake violently. His ball of light sputtered before winking out for good. The entire room fell to darkness. Sarkan cursed, trying to think through the stabbing pain clustering behind his eyes. Sarkan stumbled through the darkness, trying to create distance between himself and the creature’s wheezes. Even with the amount of noise the creature made, Sarkan couldn’t tell which direction it was coming from or whether the creature knew where he was.

   For a moment, the room was quiet. Then the back of Sarkan’s knee bumped into a low coffee table. A waft of hot, rasping breath splashed across his face. Heat blossomed across Sarkan’s pectoral as the creature’s nails raked across his chest. Something solid and curved collided with the back of Sarkan’s head. His chin hit his chest, knocking the wind out of him. His back hit the floor. He was dimly aware of the creature tearing at his arms as he tried holding it back, shaking from the effort. He could taste smoke in his mouth. Its nails clicked against the buttons of his jacket. Sarkan barked in pain as warmth spread through his stomach. The room erupted into a blur of white.

   Sarkan doubled over on to his side, clutching at his head as his internal fire poured out of his pores into flames. For a moment, all he could hear was the roar of fire. Then, underneath the blare, there were soft cooing noises. Sarkan pried an eye open, squinting through his pulsing vision and the glare of the fire to see the creature leaning over him. It hadn’t jerked back in alarm. Instead, it seemed to stare in open wonder. In the light its features seemed softer. Under the layers of dark vines that melded with gnarled skin, Sarkan could almost see the figure of a young boy. His sunken eyes gleamed as he reached towards Sarkan— no, towards the fire. He let the flames lick his disfigured claws. There was a sort of peacefulness that settled over his features. 

   Then the creature froze and looked up, over its shoulder. A sort of shudder rocked its entire body, accompanied by low whimpers. It scampered off Sarkan and out of sight. Distantly, Sarkan heard glass cracking before the room fell quiet. 

   The flames of his magic smothered into a gentle warmth that crept along his skin. His headache flared to a dull but persistent ache. Sarkan groaned and tried rolling fully onto his stomach to push himself into a sitting position. His wounds twinged in protest, leaving Sarkan no choice but to stay on his back. The smell of burnt wood and fabric filled his nose, making him rasp as he coughed. His head was stuffy, almost feverish. Any adrenaline he had before dissipated into exhaustion. He clutched at the wound on his stomach, praying he wasn’t going to bleed out onto the carpet. Part of him laughed at the idea, of being found on the brink of death and all he’d hear was Father Ballo screaming, “Not the carpet!” His chuckle turned into a fit of coughs. 

   There were voices in the distance, muffled. A bit alarmed in tone. Relief washed over Sarkan. He felt less unnerved about the edges of his vision going.

   Then he heard the breaking of glass. The thud of a body swinging into the room. Then another. Soft, thick accents. A low whistle of admiration. Glass snapping under boots. A short exclamation of discovery, the words foreign yet familiar. A hand on his face. They pulled at his coat, the gold buttons glinting in the light of the blue flame they held in the cusp of their hand. A pair of husky laughs cut off quickly by distant shouts. Sharp pains stabbed through Sarkan’s side as he was hoisted over a shoulder. That was the last thing he remembered before his vision pitched black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 
> 
> Also, in case you were wondering what the fire thing was all about, I have a personal head-cannon that Sarkan has a high affinity for fire magic. Specifically, he constantly has fire magic thrumming through his veins; hence his unusually high body heat. So in times of stress or high emotions, his body heat will unconsciously begin to rise and smoke will start to billow out of his mouth. He might even scorch things if he's not careful, like the binding of a book or a door frame he's leaning against or bed sheets. If it gets bad enough or if Sarkan is too stressed to function rationally, his magic will pour out into flames and he'll functionally light himself and anything around him on fire.


End file.
